Porcelain Demon
by Momoiro Usagi
Summary: Roy struggles to forget his memories under the enemy's touch. RoyxLust


His shadow flickered down the dusty street, stretching out long, cat-like claws into the sand, staining the dusk with its inky caress. Darkness was coming; soon the desert would disappear below the horizon.

But that was okay with Roy. Because only at night could he truly let his life slip away. He had vowed never to return to Ishbal, and yet his feet still persisted as they plodded down the blood-stained paths surrounding the refugee camp. He had vowed never to raise his hand against another group of civilians, and yet he had stood by and watched as his troops fired openly into a crowd.

All he wanted was to shut it out. To return to his tent, have a few drinks, and pass out across the same worn cot in which he had spent so many sleepless nights. But even in darkness, the memories still hung like dead weight in his chest. Images that would never, even in death, leave his mind.

Roy had once longed for death. It had once seemed too easy, standing in the corner of that filthy hospital, the cold metal of his gun pressing into his chin. The smell of rotting bodies wafting through the air. But everything was different back then. Now there were too many things he couldn't abandon. Too many memories he couldn't shut out, even in the darkest seconds of a moonless night.

He had promised his friend he would reach the top. They had believed the world could change, even when everything seemed lost. Now, in the wake of his death, Roy had no choice but to continue his journey. He had to follow orders, because he knew that someday he wouldn't have to.

Still, the path in front of him was obscured; sand-coated wind drew slashes across the earth, confusing his booted feet. He found no comfort in the disappearance of the sun or the dimming of the camp's lanterns. Because he already felt so lost.

"Colonel Mustang." The voice was barely a whimper in the night, so much so that he wasn't entirely sure it hadn't come from the dark recesses of his mind rather than the air around him. He turned around cautiously, scanning the area with fierce concentration. But he saw nothing. The camp was a ghost town: a graveyard for those already dead. The only sound was the gentle humming of nighttime prayers spoken in a foreign tongue. Words and emotions he would never understand, but desperation that made perfect sense to his pounding head.

Prayers spoken in hopes of pushing him away, and prayers begging for his forgiveness.

"It's rather late for a man such as yourself to be sulking around the desert, don't you think?"

This time the words were definite; he turned around, only to find the hooded figure of a woman shadowing his back, almost close enough to reach out and grab his shoulder. He retained his confident posture even in spite of his shock, but his gloved hand emerged from his pocket, his fingers tightening into a determined fist. "I could ask the same of you," he pursed his lips, instinctively aware of the need for caution. "Isn't it time for your nightly prayers?"

"And what would I have to gain from prayer, Colonel?" She chuckled; it rang out like a church bell in the night, the clear sound rising above the howling of the wind. Her hands slipped out from under her heavy cloak, revealing ivory skin and slender wrists, reaching to brush the hair from her eyes. The contrast of light and dark was remarkable. Beautiful. "I'm a sinner, such as yourself."

Meeting her with a heartless laugh, he turned away, stealing another glance at the sea of battered tents spread out before him. People who he had wronged huddled close to one another, screaming out for salvation that would never come. And even still, he kept walking. He kept persisting, stretching towards the top. He had always believed he could make a difference, but he seemed to be causing nothing but pain.

"I guess nobody can recognize sin like a sinner." He struggled to hold up his façade: his nonchalant smile and dignified stance. But he remained thankful for the darkness; it fell over his eyes like a veil, shielding his deepest thoughts from her violet stare. He kept so much of himself hidden, and for good reason. Why let others see the agony he couldn't even confront on his own?

Why let others see the side of himself he could no longer bear to face?

He was startled by the arm that slithered around his neck; her flesh was ice, holding no trace of the desert sun on its translucent surface. She pulled him back slightly, fingering the collar of his uniform with familiarity he didn't deserve. She was so strange, so different from the others. Stronger than the robes masking her true form could ever reveal.

"They say the only way to forget a mistake is to drown it in more sin," hissing into his ear, she leaned against his shoulder, capturing him in an uncompromising embrace. He tensed, but did not withdraw, instead turning back to meet her. His unsure nod lacked focus; his gaze drifted over her head and into the night beyond. He felt the weight in his chest swelling, dread creeping into his veins, his heart plunging into a sea of unwanted memories. But still, he was frozen. His knees refused to resist or buck under her touch.

Roy had been touched by so many women in the past, but never like this. They had been shy, blushing as they played with the buttons of his jacket, trembling as he ran his palms across their cheeks. But this woman's touch reminded him of another: someone so much more meaningful. She was strong and persistent. She demanded so much of him with her bittersweet smirk.

She reminded him of the man he had loved but had never been able to reach for; her strong fingers were like every touch he had ever imagined in his dreams.

"What's wrong?" She seemed to sense something in his empty eyes, nudging the arms that hung uselessly at his sides. "Don't I look beautiful to you? Or are you afraid to reach for a woman of the race you despise? I'm your enemy, I suppose."

"No. You aren't."

Roy didn't have time to consider the situation any further; instead his legs reacted on their own, following her lead as they headed back into the tented streets. He was mindful of every second; each footstep carried him away from his life and comfort. He felt the spacious army barracks and modern world in which he had grown up disappearing behind him as he trod the paths of the poor. The displaced.

He had seen the Ishbalian people many times before, but he had never walked among them like this. He had never before found any sense of belonging in their arms.

His feet didn't stop until she drew back the weathered flap of her tent; she offered him a gesture of welcome with her graceful arms. He was startled; unlike the surrounding families and tribes clustered tightly together, she lived alone. The dingy space was completely deserted save for one unnatural-looking figure plodding about outside the opposite entrance. "Don't mind him," she brushed the other's presence aside, instead taking Roy's hand, tightening her grip as he started to falter. "What are you afraid of, Colonel? Certainly soldiers are allowed to have a little fun off duty?"

"I try not to drag my work into my personal affairs." He mustered a hint of his usual charm, following her inside even though his mind screamed out against it. If he could really forget it all, the night would be worth it. If he could numb himself to the pain ripping him away from his goal, this certainly would not be done in vain. "I trust you will do the same."

She paused suddenly; a thoughtful grin twitched on her lips as she looked back at him, sighing as she started to unravel her cloak. "It's strange," he shifted uneasily under her intense eyes, focusing on the single pulsing candle sitting just beside her bed mat. A halo of light spread out across the pillow, wavering only when she tossed aside a heap of extra bedding. His chest clenched, though he wasn't sure why.

"I would've thought," she continued, shrugging her shoulders. "You would've been more like him. But you're not. He smiled so easily, but you always look so tense. I wonder why that is, Colonel?"

His eyes widened, his body shaking slightly as he set his hands into fists behind his back. "Who are you talking about?"

"I think you know."

It happened all at once. The dam broke, his rage spilling out like a river ravaged by a storm, tearing up the sand with his furious feet. Maybe this was a dream. After all, how could a woman from Ishbal possibly know him? How could she know what Roy was really longing for that night under the desert sky? His stomach moaned, plummeting in his chest as he chanced a glare in her direction. But what he saw made him explode.

There, sitting just above her newly-exposed breasts, it burned a ring of fire across milky flesh. Staring back at Roy like an all-seeing eye. Ripping him apart inside. That tattoo. He had seen it in Hughes' notes. That girl, Schieska, had shoved it in his face, crying and screaming for help as she tried to solve the mystery. And now the mystery sat right in front of him, twisting easy fingers through her raven tresses, fiddling with the clasps on the back of her dress.

He couldn't stand it any longer.

"You," he sprang forward, wrapping stern hands around her wrist, tugging her to her feet. A hint of amusement flickered in her eyes: the first real emotion he had seen all night. But now it infuriated him. How dare she smile when the blood of the only person he had ever loved still stained her hands? "You," he sputtered, biting his lip. He had her in his grasp, but he wasn't sure what he wanted to do with her. His mind screamed to tear her apart, but his body wouldn't react.

Hughes wouldn't have wanted more blood to be spilled in his name.

"You killed him," he managed a tight whisper, pushing her back towards the bed, still completely stunned by the lack of guilt on her face. His muscles tensed and ached; his back creaked unnaturally. But he couldn't bring himself to fight. Not like this. "Why, why did you-?"

"I was only following orders. Because I used to believe that someday I wouldn't have to."

The world froze; the words pounded into his brain. A perfect echo of his own excuses. Hughes had once pointed out that the only difference between opposing teams was the colors they wore. Whether in war, or sport, or even life, enemies and heroes were subjective terms. He hadn't quite understood it back then, but somehow the waning candlelight and thick desert breeze twisted off his blindfold, revealing the truth.

She smiled wantonly, extracting his clammy grip from her arms, easing herself down onto the pillowed mat. Her thick hair spilled out across the silken sheets: shadows of something exotic and wonderful begging for exploration. But in her eyes, he saw himself. They were two worlds coming together, not nearly as far apart as he had once believed.

"You loved him, didn't you?" Her voice was husky but light, like a glass of good brandy. It hung on her lips; he leaned forward, entranced, longing for a taste. "But you never had the chance to tell him. And now the regrets are eating you alive."

"How did you know?"

"You and I," He watched as she turned her head, tentatively brushing his lips to the crook of her neck, feeling the words as they vibrated deep within her throat. "We aren't so different."

Before he could react he was flipped down onto the bed. The curves of her body slithered out from under him, dancing over the silky blankets, pinning him down under raven claws. Bare breasts pressed seductively into his chest; her larger form overcame him in one fluid motion. And he surrendered willingly, because he longed to shake off all control. He longed to be at the enemy's mercy.

"And are you following orders now?" His breath came in quick, short pants; his back arced up slightly, trying to deepen the contact. Her skin felt like ice against his neck, but he didn't recoil. The cold soothed the invisible scars painting his body. The straining between his legs took him to a place far beyond the reach of his sullen memories. Sliding a hand between them, he unfastened the buttons of his jacket, casting aside the dark reminder of his past. Needing to be consumed by the demanding caress of her skin.

"No. Not anymore."

"Then why?"

"Shh," a slender finger pressed to his lips: a soft touch promising so much more in return for his silence. Scooping forward, she returned to the kiss, sliding her palm down his neck as she probed every corner of his mouth with her tongue. Every touch was heated and precise. Unlike Roy, who longed to pull her down into a sweaty pile of limbs and relieve himself with a few swift thrusts, she took her time, working with obvious experience.

For so many lonely nights, Roy had imagined this. He had imagined Hughes' strong fingers snaking into his pants, tugging at his leaking erection, eliciting shivers from the base of his spine. When he closed his eyes, he could almost see those glinting yellow eyes peering down at him, studying his sweaty countenance with giddy fascination. Hughes had died by this woman's hand, and yet it was her touch that brought Roy's dreams of him to life.

It was her kiss that tasted of everything he had ever believed to exist behind Hughes' easy grin.

He felt those lips moving down his body, exploring the expanse of his slender chest. Pausing to nip at every muscle and bone. Each brush of her teeth set him on fire; he squirmed uncomfortably, longing for something more, becoming quickly oblivious to his surroundings as he stared up at the canvas ceiling. But she continued her torture, barely even acknowledging the pleas his body was making.

"Did he ever touch you like this, Colonel?" Her words tingled across the sweaty curves of his abdomen, her hair tickling his skin as she rested against his muscular waist. Holding his breath as she dipped lower, his hips rolled upwards when her hand came to rest on the hem of his pants. He needed this. This escape. She could give him what the other women had always failed to accomplish. Relief.

He spread his fingers through her hair, enjoying the feel of woven locks under his touch, pressing her down slightly as she worked at his zipper. But she refused to follow his lead, instead pausing until he withdrew his grasp, idily teasing his erection through the straining fabric. Even the slightest touch made his arms go flaccid; he stared down at her, biting his tongue, trying to hold back his cries as she took him into her mouth.

Her lips froze his flushed skin; each stroke of her tounge was electricity, sending sparks of pleasure dancing down his length. She tore his pants from his body, rubbing her perky breasts over his thighs, sliding her fingers down under his legs to tease at his tight opening. Through everything, she remained strong. In control.

She remained something out of Roy's wildest dreams: a porcelain demon satisfying the desires he had hidden away for so long. She was his ticket to emancipation. She was his savior, taking him beyond the stretch of his own reality, and into freedom.

And he spread his legs, hungry and willing. Too caught up in his own fantasy to even consider raising his voice in protest.

He was not surprised when she changed positions; he only smiled, shivering as her knees tightened around his waist. She sank down onto him in one demanding thrust. He was consumed by a mixture of heat and cold, of night and day. His muscles spasmed; he couldn't stop his back from writhing as she sank her nails into his shoulders.

Pain and pleasure. The punishment he knew he deserved made bearable by the haughty caress of her lips.

His mind spun as he gazed up into her rich stare. Colors and moments swelled together into turmoil, too disjointed to make any sense to his racing mind. He saw nothingness. Night. Arcing upwards, he let her swallow him into the frigid depths of her body, spilling his seed across her thrusting hips. Painting her with his own life. His own past.

Reaching up to her, he stole a gentle kiss, resisting the urge to collapse bonelessly into her arms. Instead he stumbled to his feet, pulling his uniform back over his body. Hiding himself behind his title once again.

"Leaving so soon, Colonel?"

Fastening the last button, he turned back, offering her a grim smile. "I'm on duty tomorrow."

He said no more, disappearing out the door and into the desert night. At his back he felt her eyes, boring into him, trying to peel back the thick façade behind which he hid his darkest thoughts. But he shook her off.

She had told him that following orders would never get him anywhere, and yet he couldn't stop believing. Because he couldn't accept that all his sins had been committed in vain.


End file.
